


The Comedown

by JLMonroe1234



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game), Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: BD-1 - Freeform, BD-1 is the most useful crew member on the Mantis, Cal Kestis Needs a Hug, Cal is a mess and Cere is a little useless but they do their best, Greez is pretty cool, Hurt Cal Kestis, Mentioned Darth Vader, Order 66, Other, Post-Order 66, Post-Star Wars: Attack of the Clones, Post-Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Post-Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars - Freeform, Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JLMonroe1234/pseuds/JLMonroe1234
Summary: She made quick work of finding a tear in his sleeve and injecting the canister. The effects of stims were temporary, but definitely fast-acting. Cal visibly relaxed as the liquid entered his bloodstream. His breathing evened out. “Thank you,” he mumbled quietly, already beginning to doze off.Cere popped the cap back on the used needle and disposed of it in the waste bin nearby. “Don’t thank me now,” she said, even though she knew he’d already fallen asleep. “We’re not through Hell just yet.”______Cal comes back from his missions hurt in more ways than one. Relying on stim canisters gets him through. The system works. For a little while, at least.
Relationships: BD-1 & Cal Kestis, Cal Kestis & Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Cal Kestis & Luke Skywalker, Cere Junda & Cal Kestis, Greez Dritus & Cal Kestis, Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 100





	1. Origins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArchieHabian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchieHabian/gifts).



> This story is being gifted to ArchieHabian, because their story titled "F. Schubert/F. Liszt - Serenade in D minor" is the love of my life and more or less inspired this. So there you go. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: This work is an original by JLMonroe1234 and has been posted STRICTLY to AO3. If you see it duplicated on any other platforms, please let me know so appropriate action can be taken. Thank you!

Cere had grown used to waiting. Years in hiding had worn her once adrenaline-governed mind down to a peaceful crawling pace. She was still witty, still alert, still every bit the observant Jedi she was trained to be. But she learned that many tasks, especially the important tasks, take time. 

So over the years, the ability to not mind the previously stomach-clenching silence of her new life became a tool. Finding random and sometimes menial tasks to keep her occupied was second nature. Order 66 left her without much of a choice. The empire took her way of life. Her plans for the future. 

The Empire took her innocent padawan, a green-eyed girl full of talent and promise, but not before taking a bit of Cere’s own soul with them. That chunk of spirit was no longer hers, but a war prisoner taken hostage with her when the empire found her, her padawan, and the younglings they’d been charged with overseeing. The only difference between her tortured physical body and her soul was that the body escaped, and that missing piece of her soul was coated with the ugly, never-ending blackness of the dark side of the Force. She never dared to go look for it, fearing that any light she had left within her would seep out through the hole her brief encounter with true evil left behind. 

So she cut herself off from the Force. She sat by and bit her tongue as the Empire grew more and more powerful, watching from her bedroom window as crying neighbors were lined up in the streets. As newly orphaned children were loaded onto Stormtrooper transport vessels and shipped away for training. As the world went by, and Vader cultivated his own sick and twisted universe. 

But what could she do? How was she to help? The mental blockage she’d been building brick by brick against the Force was well fortified, forged of willpower and grief. Who’s to say what would happen if she busted down that wall? Opened the floodgates? As easily as she could use the light side of the Force to her advantage, she could twist the dark side to do her bidding. It was a risk she couldn’t take.

So she listened to the sounds of blaster fire and sorrow, and did not intervene. She went about her life like she’d been born on Tatooine, like she belonged behind the bar of an establishment she knew was under the control of the Hutt clan. The old Cere wouldn’t have spent more than a few moments inside before tackling any one of the partons and calling them out for their criminal acts against the galaxy. But the new Cere needed credits and a place to lie low, and a no-name Hutt bar on a mostly inhabitable planet was a great place to do it. 

Over time she fell into a simple routine; work, sleep, go to the market. Work, sleep, go to the market. One her days off she skipped the market and either slept or meditated. Not to reconnect with the Force, but to keep herself away from it. She reflected upon the sand, the suns of Tatooine, and her past. Her choices. Her padawan, now in the hands of the Empire.

The inside of the Hutt bar was no place for contemplation, the sheer volume of the establishment eliminating the possibility of holding onto any coherent thoughts. But it was a great place for meeting some...Interesting characters. Specifically, interesting characters who tip well and have moderate gambling addictions. 

Greez Dritus was supposed to be a one-stop traveler, just a creature passing through for a refuel on his way to bigger and better places. According to him, anyway. 

His quick stop turned into an extended stay when he lost his ship in a high-stakes game of Holochess. Cere saw defeat coming from miles away, knew that Greez didn’t have a Holochess-trained bone in his body, but she stayed out of it. It wasn’t any of her business what bar patrons did with their belongings. 

Greez was like any other man when he inevitably lost the game; angry and undignified. He’d just gambled his only way off Tatooine, after all. _No one_ liked being on Tatooine. Cere knew that for a fact. 

But something about Greez’s reaction to his defeat stood out. He _accepted_ it. Was mad? Sure. Spat some profanities so off-world that Cere hadn’t heard them in years? Of course. But did he claim that his opponent cheated? Did he blame fate, or the universe’s injustice for his loss? No. He took his defeat like a respectable man would and handed the Holochess victor a small strip of leather with the ship’s boarding platform remote. 

“Take care of ‘er,” Greez said sadly, dropping the key fob into his victorious opponent’s palm, “ _Mantis_ deserves only the best.” 

His opponent only snorted. “Whatever, man. Thanks for the ride.”

Greez watched him go, boots kicking up the ever-present dust on the bar floor. Without looking away from the front door, he slapped a small hand on the bar counter. Cere didn’t flinch. She never flinched.

“Give me something strong, sister. Because this loss,” he downed the glass of fire whisky Cere handed to him, “this loss hurts.” He didn’t look pathetic. Just sad. Like he was mourning more than just a ship. His eyes were glassy for the rest of the evening, their focus rarely leaving the scraped and sticky bar counter as he sipped on several more servings of whatever alcohol Cere decided to put in front of him.

“Hey, you know of anyone hiring around here?”

Cere told Greez about the opening at the repair shop, the one an inebriated bar patron had told her about as he sobbed about being fired from the very same business. “You gotta wear a pretty unflattering uniform,” Cere had warned him, recalling the previous mechanic’s constantly greasy and wrinkled jumpsuit. “I hope red’s your color.”

Greez huffed a laugh. “You kiddin’ me? I look _amazing_ in red.”

* * *

Greez came back three days later wearing that very same red jumpsuit. 

Cere noted how the fabric bunched around his ankles, and the cuffs of his sleeves kept coming unstuck from where they were scrunched around his elbows and falling over his hands. “Looks like you got the job,” she noted pointlessly.

Greeze snorted and pulled himself onto a barstool. “Damn right I did. I’m the best mechanic from here to the end of the sandtraps. What did you expect?”

“Oh, _excuse_ me for doubting your obvious abilities.”

“Get a good look, sister. I won’t be in here as often from here on out. I’m a working man now.”

“What do you think I’m doing behind this bar, Greez?”

“I don’t know, lookin’ pretty?”

True to his word, Greez’s appearances at the bar became few and far inbetween. On the days he did show up it was never before midday meal, and he was grumpy, quiet, and reeked of motor oil. His misery was palpable, and Cere felt worse for him as the days wore on. It was obvious that staying in one place was killing him; he was meant for travel, for movement and new experiences. The monotony of working the same job on the same, miserable planet was taking its toll. 

Greez was someone Cere had come to think of as a friend. Seeing him so upset and letting it stand was against her nature. So as the days progressed, she tried anything she could to make life just a bit more interesting for him. A little less...Sandy. Blindingly sunny. Tatootine-esq. 

An extra shot of blue mault in his drink one day, a free appetizer the next. Some days it’s as simple as striking up conversation- telling him about the universe outside of Tatooine. Cere overheard a lot during her time in the bar. Being a popular spot for travelers brought in many interesting characters with fat mouths and riveting pasts. There were always stories to tell. 

“Let me tell you, fellas, that ship is _bad_ news. Doesn’t matter what system I’m in, someone always tries to shoot me down! Once I was boarded mid-flight and some pompous bitch said he’d shoot me if I didn’t hand over the 30,000 credits I owed him! Like, what the hell? Unless I can wipe the ship’s system and hide its ID number, I’m gonna have to ditch it somewhere.”

Both Cere and Greez were present for this conversation. Cere watched her friend slowly put down his drink and divert his attention to the storyteller and his friends.

“No way, seriously? Where’d you get that hunk of junk, anyways?”

“Here, actually. Won it in a game of Holochess. Guy I played against was a complete idiot.”

“At least you didn’t waste any money on it.”

“I think I’ve _lost_ money, at this point, with how many repairs I’ve had to make.”

“It’s the Mantis,” Greez whispered. 

Something shifted so drastically within Cere that she dropped an entire bottle of fire whisky on the floor. The bottle shattered, liquor coating the floor behind the bar and shards of glass around her boots, but Cere paid the mess no mind. There was a feeling in her gut, in her head, in her chest, reverberating through her very bones. A feeling she thought she’d cut herself off from years ago and hadn’t dared touch in just as long. 

“He’s got the Mantis!” Greez was out of his seat and making his way toward the storyteller’s table. Cere couldn’t find it within her to stop him, to tell him that she hated breaking up fights. Her voice was firmly lodged within her throat. She was too busy trying to solidify what she was feeling, trying to gather the power threatening to overwhelm her and send it as far away as possible.

“Hey, it’s you! Your stupidass ship has made my life a living hell, you know that? People really hate you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s old news. But the Mantis, she’s alright?”

“That ship’s never gonna be alright-”

“But she’s in one piece?”

“It’s functional.”

“And I hear you’re looking to get rid of her?”

The storyteller looked taken aback. “W-why? You want it?”

“Well _of course_ I want it, that’s my ship!”

“I figured you offered it up during our game because you wanted to ditch it! Keep people from tracking you!”

“You joking? I offered it because I had nothing else! I’ve got a 30,000 credit debt on my head, remember?”

“Well damn, take it! It’s only been trouble for me.” With that, the storyteller pulled the key fob out of his pocket and dropped it into Greez’s palm. “Never tell anyone I talked to you. I don’t need your enemies.”

The powerful presence within Cere flared momentarily. She may have cut herself off from the Force, shut the door on it. But that didn’t mean it never came knocking. 

Greez offered a sarcastic salute and immediately began making his way back toward the bar. “Pleasure doing business with you!” he shouted over his shoulder. 

“Go to hell!” The storyteller shouted back.

Cere’s attention was split between the awestruck look on Greez’s face, the hum in her veins, and a quiet conversation happening between a bounty hunter and an aristocrat a few seats away. 

“-rumors of a hidden Jedi on Bracca.”

“There’s rumors of hidden Jedi everywhere nowadays.”

“But this came from high up. Credible sources.” The bounty hunter leaned in, obviously a little tipsy, if he was willing to be so forthcoming with such dangerous information. “Heard it through my Imperial communications scanner.” 

“Wait, seriously?”

“I swear it.” 

“You really think there’s Jedi on Bracca?” 

Bracca was a pisshole if there ever was one- unpredictable weather, sketchy atmospheric gravitational field. It was a known graveyard for Republic and Imperial ships alike, especially during the Clone Wars. Mostly occupied by scrappers and lowlifes ever since. A great place for someone to disappear, if that’s what they needed to do. 

The bounty hunter shrugged. “Who knows anymore. Probably not a full-fledged one, if he hasn’t been found out. Easier to hide all that Force-using when you’re too insecure about your skill to use it.” He took a break to take a hearty swig of his beer. “But from what I’ve heard, they can be sneaky bastards when they want to. If there really is some poor soul wandering around Bracca, I hope he learns to keep a lower profile. For his sake.” 

The second Greez had settled back into his seat, Cere dropped the rag she’d been using to wipe down glasses and looked him in the eyes. “I’d like to charter the Mantis.” 

* * *

Bracca was in a completely different system than Tatooine. Even with lightspeed and a decently fast ship, her and Greez had plenty of time to talk out the purpose of their mission. 

And Greez was _not_ happy about it. “What the hell did you drag me into, Cere? I’ve already got about half the galaxy with a price on my head, and now you’re bringing the full force of Order 66 down on me too?” 

“I had no other option. If there’s Jedi on Bracca, we have to help them.” 

“ _Do_ we though? If they’re in hiding, if the rumors were really just that and no one actually knows there’s Jedi under their noses, aren’t we just drawing attention to them? And _ourselves?_ You were a Jedi. They’ll kill you just as quick.” 

Cere had started their conversation by explaining her past. Why what they were doing was so urgent. What she felt in the bar. She explained that part as well as she could, anyways. Trying to explain how the Force feels to a non-wielder was like trying to explain the existence of a higher power to a toddler. They’d never be able to fully understand. 

“I cut myself off from the Force.” 

“Doesn’t make a difference to them. You were a council -certified glow stick wielder. The Empire won’t hesitate.” 

“That’s a risk we’re going to have to take.” 

That risk also included putting Greez’s life in danger- associating with Jedi was almost as bad as being one. Both of them knew he’d either be killed on the spot or tortured for information he didn’t have. But Cere knew Greez was a good man when he didn’t bring it up, just shook his head and told Cere to buckle her seatbelt. 

“If there’s really Jedi on Bracca, I hope they’re worth the trouble.” 

* * *

Finding Cal, timing their journey just right to be able to intercept him at the most pivotal moment of his fight with the Second Sister, wasn’t a coincidence. It was nothing short of a miracle. 

It was the work of the Force, as much as Cere hated to admit it. The timing of hearing the intel about a Jedi on Bracca and Greez getting his ship back was all too coincidental. Cere was used to the Force’s will being a bit less on-the-nose back when she actively listened to it, but desperate times called for desperate measures. People like Cal were a dying breed. The Force did what it needed to. 

The second Cal stumbled onto the ship and they were actively heading for Bracca’s outer atmosphere, the static in Cere’s head dulled to an ever-present hum; the same hum she’d grown used to after years of attempting to sever her connection to the Force. It was almost like it was telling her Thank You- now that she’s done it’s bidding, it would leave her alone for a while. She hated it. Hated feeling like she’s come so close to letting it have her again. 

But she hadn’t, and it didn’t. The oily blackness of the Dark Side was still hushed and locked away. That’s the best outcome she could have gotten. 

“Who…” Cal was still out of breath from his fight, heaving, coughing through the smoke inhalation and evident pain taking hold of his lungs. “W-who are you guys?” His left hand was wrapped around the right side of his ribs like he’d broken something, and his right hand grasped his powered-down lightsaber like someone was about to take it from him. Cere noted that his finger was on the switch. 

“We’re friendlies. We want to help.” 

“Why?” 

“ _Good question!”_ Greez shouted from the cockpit. 

Cal’s eyes darted over Cere’s shoulder to look at Greez in the pilot’s seat, then came right back to bore into her. Cal May have been hurt, scared, overwhelmed, all of the above, but he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. “Because there’s still hope.” 

“For who?” 

“For you. Me. The Jedi.” 

Cal’s eyebrows shot upward. The poor kid was a mess, soot caked into his bright red hair, clothes torn in numerous places. There was a nasty scar stretching from the edge of his right cheek down past his jaw and onto his neck, seeming to glow white against the flush of his cheeks. “I don’t- I don’t understand. Why _me?_ Why come here?” 

Cere watched him actively hold back a groan when the ship jostled and his right side bumped into the holotable. She slowly walked forward and past Cal, heading to the cot at the back of the ship. She held out a hand. “We can talk later. You’re hurt. You need rest.” 

He didn’t move.

“You’re _safe_ here. I swear it.” 

Something in his eyes shifted. His guard was still up, skepticism evident in the taught lines of his mouth. That skepticism was probably what had kept him alive this long. 

He eventually nodded and gave in to his exhaustion, allowing Cere to gently wrap an arm around his back to lead him to the cot. He laid down slowly, careful not to jostle his ribs. 

Cere dug through the Mantis’s obviously old and untouched med-kit and managed to find an unused stim canister. The green liquid glowed within the vile. Her heart twinged when she noted how similar it’s glow was to the lightsaber she wielded all those years ago. 

Cal tried to scuttle away from her when she came forward with the canister. He was still in the cot, though, so he only had a few inches to scoot before he backed himself into the wall. “What’s that?” 

“Stim canister.” 

He didn’t say anything. 

“It’ll help with the pain for a while. Make those ribs heal faster.” 

Cal seemed to weigh his options- stay injured and uncomfortable, or risk taking medicine from a stranger for the sake of being ready for another fight, if one were to come his way. “Fine. Go ahead.” She made quick work of finding a tear in his sleeve and injecting the canister. The effects of stims were temporary, but definitely fast-acting. Cal visibly relaxed as the liquid entered his bloodstream. His breathing evened out. “Thank you,” he mumbled quietly, already beginning to doze off. 

Cere popped the cap back on the used needle and disposed of it in the waste bin nearby. “Don’t thank me now,” she said, even though she knew he’d already fallen asleep. “We’re not through Hell just yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly can't remember whether Greez and Cere's friendship in Fallen Order was explained or not, but this is how I chose to make it happen. They got to know one another from both being more or less stuck on Tatooine, the Force basically made everything line up so they could get the Mantis back and go get Cal. It gives them a friendly relationship but also makes everything involving the Jedi and Cere's past unexplored territory. We had to leave room for angst, of course.


	2. Detox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cal's got a problem. He's working through it.

Cere could tell Cal’s missions were taking a toll on him. He kept coming back more injured and haggard than the last time, almost always stumbling onto the ship and immediately making his way toward the back room where he could meditate. It didn’t always work - Cal warned her that it wouldn’t. Ever since he’d lost his master to Order 66, connecting himself to the force that closely had been painful, emotionally and physically. Cal’s brute-force Force wielding wasn’t nearly as strong as his Psychometry. 

Connecting to the past, seeing how it played out, was much too easy for him. He mentioned that sometimes wielding his own lightsaber - the one given to him by his master - was too much to handle. The memories would come flooding back to him and he’d have to relive the death of his own mentor, as well as feel the pain of hundreds of other force users he never knew and would never know. It was a terrible burden to bear, the ability to see into the past, to feel it so strongly. Cere didn’t envy him one bit. 

After the mission to the vault on Bogano, Cal had been in particularly rough shape. He tried meditating for over an hour before limping slowly to the cockpit and throwing himself into his chair. “It’s pointless. I can’t stay focused long enough to do anything beneficial. I always just start spiraling.” 

Cere didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to help. His was a pain she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Maybe try another place on the ship? Or wait until we’re on the ground and find a place to do it then?”

Cal shook his head. “No, there’s no time. I need to head out as soon as we land. “ He looked down at his dirty boots for a moment, Bogano mud still caked into the souls. “Do you have any more of those medicine capsules? Stims, right?”

“Yes, we picked some up on our last stop. Why?”

“Maybe I could use one of those. Just for now, I mean. Until this mission’s done and I can rest for real.”

“Are you sure, Cal? They work great for a little while, especially when you’re full of adrenaline, but the crash afterward is terrible. You’ll likely just feel worse.” Cere thought back to the clone wars when troopers would use stems in the heat of battle. They were great in a pinch, giving you just enough energy and pain relief to keep going for a little while longer, but the comedown was brutal. Many of her men ended up hooked, unable to stay sane or battle-ready an entire day without popping a stim every few hours. The detoxification process was nothing short of excruciating. 

“It’s just a one time thing. It’ll be fine, Cere.”

Cal’s “one time thing” became a before and after-mission ritual. For a long time, Cere pretended not to notice. Weeks of emotional strain and physical exertion were taking a toll and Cal needed something to keep him going. A stim dependence was the least of their worries. She also just felt bad about her utter lack of purpose during the whole ordeal. Being cut off from the force made her more or less useless, apart from her ability to intercept imperial radio chatter. 

But when he started  _ lying  _ about the stim use, Cere’s concern peaked. There had even been a few times when he would retreat to the back of the ship under the guise of resting or meditating, and she’d walk back to find him shooting up in plain sight. “It’s not a big deal,” he’d assure her, “It’s just for a little while longer. Just until meditation becomes easier. Or until we have the holocron. Whichever comes first.”

He’d even taken to carrying extra canisters in BD-1 when he went on missions. The poor little droid didn’t even realize he was fueling a rapidly progressing addiction.

The only time Cere purposefully gave Cal another stim was after his battle with Vader.  _ That  _ was a plot twist she hadn’t expected and was ridiculously ill-prepared for. So much time away from the Force brought it all rushing back when she opened the door, and the Dark Side took hold almost immediately. If Cal hadn’t interveined, she didn’t know what she would have done under its influence. 

But of course, her own weakness put Cal in harm’s way. His solo fight with the sith lord had left him seriously injured. A lightsaber wound was no joke, especially one inflicted by Darth Vader. 

She briefly considered just not giving him the meds, letting the Force decide whether he survived or didn’t. Who was she to play god? But then she peeled the singed bits of Cal’s cowl out of his wound, saw the wound’s depth and the charred flesh surrounding it. Saw how his brow was furrowed with pain even in sleep. She gave in to her own concerns for his well being. There was no way Cal was going to survive without medical intervention. So, despite how her own head pulsed at the action, she popped the cap of a stim and let the medicine run its course. 

As the days wore on and Cal continued healing, his tolerance to stims grew. He needed two or three at once to stay on his feet. It didn’t help that universal supply was low; everyone knew war was coming, had maybe already arrived. Along with food rations and clean water, stims were more or less off the shelves as soon as they were stocked. Cal started coming back empty handed after runs to the market. He’d even resorted to bartering away one of his lesser-used kyber crystals for a week’s supply. After the supply ran out and he was no longer able to find stims  _ anywhere,  _ on the black market or otherwise, it was obvious that the beginning symptoms of withdrawal were taking hold. 

It started with the sweat on his brow, an ever-present sheen of it. He went from wearing his scrapping uniform and a poncho to a set of linen villager robes he’d found at a trading post. Even with the much lighter garb he was constantly overheating. 

Greez, bless his soul, kept the AC on the ship blasting at all times. Of course he didn’t tell Cal that, though, lest his carefree pilot persona suffer because of it. The two of them not detoxing from a stim addiction were teeth-chatteringly cold most of the time, but neither of them had the heart to turn it down. 

Accompanying the sweats were pounding headaches, ones that kept Cal in bed for hours at a time with the lights off and the door to the ship’s main sleeping quarters shut. He tried meditating (his focus had begun improving tremendously near the end of their search for the holocron), but it provided no relief. His frequent naps seemed to help some, but the pain was back the second he awoke. Sometimes he’d sit at the kitchen table with his eyes closed and his forehead resting against its cold surface. Oftentimes Cere would drape a cool cloth against his neck, his forehead, whatever part of him was available in a weak attempt to stave off the heat and pain. He always managed to give her a meek smile of thanks, but she really didn’t know if her gestures were helping. 

On the days he could stand being up and about he was positively exhausted. His favorite pastime became napping anywhere he could lay his head. Greez hated this particular leg of Cal’s recovery. 

“C’mon, kid, no drooling on the weapon controls. They’re sensitive.”

Cal had dozed off several minutes ago, his attempt at listening into Imperial radio chatter quickly abandoned only a few minutes in. Cere didn’t have the heart to wake him.

The cockpit was dark, the only sources of light being the dashboard lights and the stars outside the windshield. They’d jumped to lightspeed twice that day and the Mantis’s engine had come dangerously close to overheating. For the time being, they were stuck at a regular traveling pace. 

Cal didn’t react to Greez’s torments, only sighed in his sleep. 

“Do you see this, Cere? There’s literally a puddle beneath his face. He’s a toddler. Disgusting.” Greez flipped the autopilot switch, hopped out of his seat, and firmly flicked Cal’s ear. “C’mon, kid. Seriously. You’re supposed to be making sure we’re not being followed! Last time you did this that TIE fighter almost took one of our wings off...Oh, shit.”

Cere looked up from the miniature holomap projected above her workstation. Little red dots indicating the potential locations of Imperial ships blinked in her peripheral vision. “Something wrong?”

“Get over here. Look at this.”

She was out of her seat immediately. Greez, as far as the ability to take things seriously goes, is not a master in the department. Like any other man he was a guardian of his pride and did his best to hide any vulnerability. His own pain wasn’t to be seen or experienced by anyone but him. 

That’s why the concern in his voice caught Cere off guard. He seemed genuinely unsettled. 

“That’s not drool.”

Cere hoped the light was simply playing tricks on her. There was a little, obvious pool of  _ something  _ beneath the cheek Cal had smushed against the control board. In the darkness of the cockpit and under the glow of the dash lights, the  _ something  _ looked awfully red. And dark. 

“It’s blood,” Cere said. 

Greez leaned in closer toward Cal, “How do you know?”

“I just know. C’mon, we gotta wake him up. Cal, c’mon, wake up.”

He didn’t stir, just took a deep breath. His eyes stayed closed.

Cere grasped him firmly by the shoulder and shook him. “Get up, Cal!”

“Alright, this is ridiculous.” Without much ceremony or pretense Greez grabbed Cal by the hair with one hand, pulled his head off the control panel, and firmly slapped him across the face. 

“Ow! What the hell?”

Cere tried to look as innocent as possible. “I’m sorry, Cal, but for right now you need to stay awake.”

Cal ran a hand slowly under his nose and across his right cheek, evidently feeling the combination of fresh and partially dried blood there. “Did s’mthin happ’n?”

Greez snorted. “Yeah, something happened. You’re bleeding all over my controls.”

“I’m what?” Cal’s eyes opened a fraction more and he peered through the darkness at Cere, at Greez, at the dark spot on the control panel where his cheek had just been. “Oh, damn. I’m sorry. That’s been happening recently.”

“ _ It has?” _

Cal had survived Order 66, fought hundreds of clone troopers, took down the ninth sister on his own,  _ and _ stood up to Darth Vader, but he cowered under Cere’s gaze. 

“You’ve been having frequent nosebleeds and didn’t tell us?”

Greez’s thumped Cal’s forehead with his knuckle.

“Ow, man, hey!”

“This is serious, carrot top!”

“It’s really not.”

Cere crossed her arms. “You’re detoxing from a highly addictive drug! Of course it's serious!”

”This means I’m at the end of it! It’ll be totally out of my system within the next couple days, by the end of the week, tops.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because this is happening exactly how it happened last time.”

Everyone in the cockpit froze, no movement happening whatsoever except for another drop of blood slipping from Cal’s nose and onto his bottom lip. Cere could hear her pulse in her ears. She was trying to stay calm, but she didn’t mean for her voice to sound as quiet and threatening as it did. “What do you mean,  _ ’this is happening exactly how it happened last time’?” _

Cal’s eyes were trained on his hands, which were intertwined tightly in his lap. “Back on Bracca a few years ago. Got hurt pretty bad, fell off a rig and broke a leg, cracked some ribs. Knocked my head around, I think, but I can’t remember. Maybe that’s a sign.” He laughed dryly. “Don’t know exactly what happened there. But I was out of work for months.” 

Neither Greez nor Cere spoke. Both stayed focused on Cal. He obviously wasn’t eager to continue. 

“No medical care on Bracca, especially not for brokeass scrappers. A coworker of mine set and splinted the leg for me, wrapped my ribs and let me stay with him for a while. But the pain,  _ man,  _ it was like nothing I’ve ever felt. I sat on a couch that wasn’t my own, physically uncomfortable and unemployed. I felt useless. The friend that was taking care of me, he said he knew someone who had something that might help.” 

He finally looked up from his lap and made eye contact with Cere and Greez individually. Greez, to his credit, took the serious tone of the conversation in stride and motioned for Cal to continue. 

“Started using spice after that.” 

She didn’t mean for her quick intake of breath to be so audible. Cal’s head lowered a little more out of shame and Cere’s heart panged painfully in her chest. 

Spice in itself was risky, known to be a powerful hallucinogen who’s intensity increased or decreased based upon its purity. Several spice variations like ryll and glitterstim grew in popularity in later years, but plain old spice was every addict’s favorite. It’s wide availability and addictive qualities made it especially dangerous. 

“No idea how spice ended up on Bracca, but I didn’t question it at the time. It helped in the beginning. Took the edge off the pain, helped me forget about everything. I obviously ended up healing just fine, but I kept using the spice. Found my own dealers once I was back to work and had my own money. Didn’t realize how bad I was until another coworker stopped me from descending 20 stories into a ship skeleton to look for parts. I hadn’t even clipped the safety rope to my harness. Would have fallen to my death. I was too busy tripping out to realize.” 

Greez huffed. “My god, kid.” 

“Yeah.  _ My god _ is about right.” 

“So you stopped after that?” Cere asked gently. 

“Tried to. Took me a long time. Not nearly as easy to detox when you’ve got no one helping you.” The small smile on his face was genuine. “But I did stop, eventually. Happened just like it’s happening now- exhaustion, headaches. Right near the end of the detox I had crazy nosebleeds. No idea why. But a few days later I was more or less back to feeling normal. Or, I guess as normal as I  _ could  _ feel after months of drug use.”

“But you’re going to be okay?” 

“Yeah, Cere, I’m gonna be okay.” 

Before he could protest Cere shot out of her seat and wrapped her arms around him. Greez obviously had the same idea, because a few seconds later Cal was trapped in a full-crew hug. 

“Good,” Cere said, “You’ve done too much good to get taken down by something like this.” 

“Yeah, you gotta keep making miracles, kid. Plus you owe me  _ so  _ much money for fuel.” 

Cere reached around Cal and thumped the back of Greez’s head. “Not the time.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I obviously took some creative liberties with the drug detox process. I didn't base it off of any particular REAL drug- My thought was that both spice and stims are weird galactic drugs with unexplained side effects and that I could make the detox happen however I wanted. So, sorry about that.


End file.
